


Comfort Eagle

by levendis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, cuddlecore, snacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9636584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: Everything is on fire and everything is okay.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FernDavant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/gifts).



“How do you do it?” the Doctor asked. He was slumped down on the jail cell floor in a position that promised future back pain.

“Do what?” Nardole replied. He did a lot of things, generally speaking.

The Doctor sighed melodramatically and crumpled further in on himself. “Be so nice to everyone, all of the time.”

Nardole considered for a moment. “It’s easier than not being nice,” he decided on finally.

“For you, yeah, I s'pose it would be.”

This was presumably meant as some sort of insult, but Nardole let it slide, partially because he wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. Instead, he rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a slightly-smushed bag of Asda own-brand chocolate biscuits. “Would eating help? You know you get grumpy when you’re hungry.”

The Doctor frowned from inside the pile his body currently was. “They’ll be broken all to fuck by now. And I’m fine, anyway.”

His stomach growled audibly; Nardole shook the bag of crumbs encouragingly in his general direction; he rolled his eyes, grabbed the bag, unfolded slightly, and shook the contents down his throat.

(The Doctor might have been about to say ‘thanks’, but then the guards came by and there was a whole Plan to be executed and there was a great deal of panicked running and, possibly, screaming, on Nardole’s part, so it’s possible he was mistaken there.)

 

* * *

 

“It’s just something you decide to do,” Nardole said later. On the ship, in one of the velvet-clad rooms, on the floor and doing the thing the Doctor had made him promise to never, ever call 'cuddling’ again.

“Pardon?” The Doctor was flicking through miscellaneous curb-pickup listings on Craigslist at a frankly alarming speed, mobile phone held at an awkward angle away from the not-cuddle tangle they currently were.

“Being kind,” Nardole said.

“Ah.”

“Sure, some people don’t deserve kindness. But most do. And I think it’s best to start with kindness and _then_ progress to angry invective and/or punching, if needed.” He patted the Doctor’s head, then let his fingers sift through all that hair, scritching at the Doctor’s scalp.

The Doctor squirmed slightly and made the noise that he’d made clear was to not, under any circumstance, be referred to a purr. “Yeah,” he said, coming out of the not-a-purr. “Yeah. But history’s proven otherwise to me, so.”

“Still important to decide to be kind,” Nardole said, wrapping his non-hair-occupied hand around the Doctor’s narrow chest.

 

* * *

 

There may have been an explosion, or three. Nardole might have been slightly on fire. He discreetly patted at his coat until the smoke stopped, and then took off his coat - since it was ruined - and tucked it neatly into the nearest garbage chute.

“Go on, then,” the Doctor said. He looked remarkably unscathed and unsinged. “Tell me what I did wrong. You’re always so keen on informing me how I fucked up, how you would have done it better, how it’s so important to be a good person and how _nice_ it would be if I could manage that.”

Nardole circled him warily. “You were mean to a housekeeper.”

“He was in the way.”

“He was _working._ ”

“It’s not all puppies and rainbows, right? If the apocalypse comes, d'you stop to help a pensioner across the street? If you need to do something, _right_ now, okay, you don’t stop and hold someone’s hand and gently guide them through - what are you doing?”

Nardole grinned, a little bit nervously. “You get angry when you’re hungry.” His hand, holding a jam doughnut, shook slightly in front of the Doctor’s face.

“And when I’m not, as well,” the Doctor said, trying to say it from between clenched teeth and marginally succeeding.

“Even so. Can’t hurt.” Nardole waved the doughnut around. “C'mon. You know you want it.”

He considered it a victory that the Doctor only spent 1.5 minutes glaring and denying before snatching the pastry out of his hands.

 

* * *

 

“I know,” Nardole said. He carefully stripped off his goo-soaked clothing. The TARDIS hummed and bumped the ambient temperature up a few degrees.

The Doctor stood shivering and a little unsteady on his feet. “They were all fucking bastards.”

Nardole scraped a handful of ooze off his shoulder and watched it drop heavily, wetly to the floor. The TARDIS made an unhappy noise. Long story short: there’d been an explosion. “I know,” he said again.

“And you want me to be _kind_ ,” the Doctor said, or spat out. Bitterly, either way.

“Not to people who don’t deserve it,” Nardole said, squelching over uncomfortably. “But to those who do deserve it, yes.”

“And who, in this scenario, deserves anything even vaguely approximating kindness.” He looked like a drowned rat, poor thing, hair matted to his face and drenched through with…whatever it was.

“Yourself,” Nardole said, scraping the Doctor’s hair off of his forehead. “And me.”

The Doctor shivered under his touch. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. You. Sorry.”

“C'mon,” Nardole said, trying and failing to get a grip on the Doctor’s arm. “Let’s get us cleaned up.”

 

* * *

 

The TARDIS had, by Nardole’s count, at least 53 showers and baths; he shoved the Doctor through the door of one and found himself another. Rinsing the day off, like. Washing all of it off. He came out squeaky-clean and pink-skinned, warm and relatively happy and bundled up in a supremely fluffy bathrobe.

He sat down on the bed cross-legged and waited. Eventually, the Doctor emerged, equally scrubbed and flushed. He patted the mattress beside him, and the Doctor paused, considered, and headed over eventually.

“So,” Nardole said, as the Doctor said “It’s just…”

 _You first_ , Nardole motioned.

“I’m done with this,” the Doctor exhaled.

“You are. And you’re not at all, at the same time. Right? You love this. Even the goo. Especially the goo.” He nudged the Doctor’s shoulder, like friendly hey-c'mon-now.

The Doctor laughed begrudgingly, and leaned into the nudge. Together they slowly fell back onto the mattress.

“I hated the goo and wish to never experience that again,” Nardole clarified. He leaned away - the Doctor making a noise they’d promised to never refer to as a whine - and grabbed a batch of chips off the nightstand. The TARDIS always supplied what was needed. Hot and fresh and with the vinegar on top. He waved the paper cone at the Doctor.

One chip falling out and landing just about directly into the Doctor’s mouth. “That’s your plan, then,” he said, taking with his mouth full.

“Eh?”

“Keep me well-fed. Fat and happy.”

“I mean. You are looking a bit healthier, these days.” Nardole propped himself on his elbow and patted the faint bit of pudge above the Doctor’s waistband in what he hoped was a positive, encouraging way. “Got a long way to go before you catch up to me, though.” He fell back down, curled around the Doctor, partially for emphasis, letting his belly press against the Doctor’s side.

“Shut it.”

“Use your words. The nice ones.”

“Please…be quiet? For a bit?”

“Right, yeah.” Nardole sighed, and let himself relax. They wouldn’t ever mention how the Doctor eased and extended his embrace in kind. And they wouldn’t say the word 'embrace’, either. Or 'hug’. 'Temporary physical contact with no emotional implications’, that might do it. For now, anyway.


End file.
